September Ends
by Skierunner
Summary: It's not Nick Fury who gets first wind of Captain America's resurrection. It's not SHIELD that fishes him up from the depths of the Atlantic. He doesn't wake up in a 1940s set-piece. Just as it was the Army who saw him off to war, it's the Army who sees him home. Canon Divergent, No Hydra
1. Chapter 1

General Marks subtly stretched in his chair. It wasn't very often that he issued his staff a late-night summons to the Pentagon. The last anyone could remember convening in the War Room this late—nicknamed the Bored Room, because, really, you'd be both surprised and disappointed to know that determining international strategies were as dull as the windowless walls of the room—was sometime during the Surge. And _never_ was there a buzz of excitement and anticipation like there was tonight.

Uncharacteristically, General Marks wasted no time getting the meeting started. "Major Dowry are you on the line?" Immediately, the muted whispers ceased, as everyone's attention turned to the speakers in the center of the table.

"Yes, sir, reporting to you from the North Atlantic."

Marks' eyes flicked up and around the room, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Well? We're all on the edges of our seats. Tell us—is it him?"

"Sir, I can confirm that it is in fact Captain America. We have recovered him from the bottom of the—" the cheers and clapping drowned out Major Dowry's tired voice.

Marks leaned back in his chair, his broad smile temporarily easing the stress lines across his face. "The Lost Hero is coming home, then. Never thought I'd see the day." He shook his head in bemused wonder before turning to Captain Khayyam. "Arlington is prepared to receive his remains and to place him with the rest of the Commandos?"

Captain Khayyam practically had to shout his affirmation to be heard over the noise of celebration that hadn't quite subsided, so it wasn't much of a surprise that no one heard Major Dowry's "Sir, wait."

Oblivious, Marks continued speaking to Khayyam. "Are they still planning on integrating his shield into the memorial? I never got follow up on the final design—"

"SIR!" Her shout cut through the din.

Eyebrows creasing, Marks returned his attention to Major Dowry's voice. "Sorry about that, Major Dowry, is there more that you had to report?"

"He's not dead, sir." Stunned silence. Exchanged glances spread across the room, the near uniform expressions of shock creating a mirror maze of incredulity. "I don't know how," she continued. "It shouldn't be possible, but when we were thawing him out of the ice he _coughed._ At first we thought maybe it was just a release of gas but someone checked his pulse and—and he had one. A pulse. He's alive."

An unbearably loud squeak cut through in the silent room as Marks leaned forward in his chair. "Are you telling me that he's part fish? Because there's zero chance anyone can live thousands of feet under the ocean for more than a few seconds let alone over _sixty years_."

"Sir, if I wasn't looking at him in the med bay as I speak, with an EKG and a saline bag hooked up to him, I would be right with you on that sentiment."

Marks looked around the room sharply. He knew everyone on his staff had proper clearance, but… "Everyone in here has TSCI?" All heads bobbed in north-south agreement. "Good. Clearly this requires a change in plans. We've got a live warrior returning to our ranks instead of a fallen Soldier. Captain Khayyam, you'll call Arlington and tell them the mission was unsuccessful." Despite looking rather shocked, Captain Khayyam nodded. "Major Dowry, what's his condition?"

"As far as the doctors will tell me, sir, he's stable but in a medically induced coma. We, um, thought that it might not be a great idea to have him wake up in an uncontrolled environment."

"I'm going to go ahead and say that's a good call. When do you make port?"

"Weather willing, in two days."

"Two days? Is the medical team prepared to handle him for that long? We can have him airlifted."

"I'm not sure, sir, I'd have to consult the—oh, the doctor just walked in, I'll ask him for an update."

"We'll stay on the line." The silence returned as the line went quiet. Marks huffed loudly, still trying to internalize this latest turn of events.

"Sir, if I may." Marks glanced at Colonel Polonsky, his attention equating to permission. "I would suggest that Major Dowry's team continues to make hourly reports and to have someone posted with Captain America at all hours. We should quarantine the area and minimize the amount of contact he's exposed to. This is going to be a very delicate situation, no matter what our follow-on course of action is going to be, we can't afford to have rumors starting this early in recovery."

"I wholeheartedly agree, Maria. We'll bring it up when Major Dowry returns."

On cue, Major Dowry spoke. "Sir?"

"Yes, you're still connected."

"The medical team is confident in their ability to keep Captain America stable for the rest of the trip. It's not necessary to airlift him, but he's in good enough condition that he could make an air trip if that's what you decide."

"Excellent. What are his security arrangements?"

"I already have a fire watch roster established and we have the ward on lockdown, sir, though you should know that I've seen a SHIELD agent nosing around."

Marks groaned, swiping his hand over his face. "Are they aware that Captain America is alive?"

"Not at the moment, sir, but I can't promise I can keep it that way. They have as much clearance on this ship as I do, so when they see me going into areas they aren't allowed, they'll cotton on that something big has happened."

"I understand. I'm fairly sure we have legal primacy in this case, so keep them out of his area, but try to stay cordial with them. I don't want to upset the President's pet project."

"Will do, sir."

"Thank you, Major Dowry. Please continue to send hourly updates to the distro. If there's nothing else?" Major Dowry responded in a negative. "Then that's all I have for you." Marks blinked a few times after she hung up to center himself before looking around the large table. His staff all seemed to be either on the figurative or literal edge of their seats, and a good number were both. "The floor's open to ideas."

The legal representative, a DA civilian by the name of Andrews, was the first to speak. "Well, it's quite clear that there is literally no precedent for this, but I think the Army still has Captain America under contract. He was presumed KIA, but now that's he's recovered he defaults to MIA status. At a minimum we have the ability to hold him until he's properly debriefed. After that… sir, I have no idea." They winced. "I'm… fairly sure the Army is going to have a couple decades worth of backpay owed to him."

"Well, there goes the budget for better MREs," finance grumbled. There were a few halfhearted chuckles, at least three beleaguered sighs, and a handshake between two individuals that looked suspiciously like an exchange of money. If Marks had to break up _another_ budget betting ring…

Colonel Polonsky nodded. "Alright, we have the legal standing to keep custody of Captain America at least as long as it takes to debrief. We'll also have to formerly outprocess him from the Army, so I'm guessing that we'll have him for a couple months after he's medically recovered for bureaucratic reasons. What kind of damage control needs to be done before we release him?"

"Wait a moment," Colonel Mbanwe said, looking at his peer from across the table. "I feel as though we are skipping a few vital points. We are assuming that Captain America will wish to leave the Army immediately. What if that is not the case? What if he wishes to remain in the Army?"

Colonel Polonsky shrugged. "That's assuming he's in any condition to serve, which I doubt since one, he's nearly a century old, and two, I find it unlikely that someone who fought in WWII will have any of the training necessary to be a competent fighting force in the modern world." She tilted her head. "Actually, that's a third point, he essentially just time traveled. I imagine the mental stress from that alone will take a toll on him. You want to simply throw him back in the fight?"

"I agree with your assessment. The chance that he is both physically and mentally fit after such a unique experience is low. I am sure that his recovery will be long and intensive. Is that not more of a reason to ensure he receives the best medical attention the Army can provide? I feel it would be irresponsible to toss him to a strange and unforgiving world. At least the Army will feel somewhat familiar to him."

Colonel Polonsky snorted. "The Army is hardly unchanged. Hell, this guy isn't going to expect integrated units, let alone women or gay Soldiers. Besides, even after a discharge, there's the VA."

"All the more reason to hold on to him," Colonel Mbanwe argued. "He will experience these social advancements regardless of where he goes in the world. The Army is perhaps the best controlled environment that we can provide, and Captain America _deserves_ the best that we can give him. We cannot guarantee such treatment from the VA."

Marks chose to intervene at that point, before the conversation could devolve into a bitching session about VA coverage. "I appreciate your input, Colonel Mbanwe, but I'm inclined to agree with Colonel Polonsky. It may be overreaching to assume anything about Captain America's condition or desires, but desires alone can't keep anyone in the Army. We'll have to treat him as any other Soldier from that perspective and medically discharge him. I expect he'll receive full retirement and medical benefits?" Andrews nodded without hesitation, always a good sign from legal. "Then we'll ensure that as long as we have him, he'll have best care possible. It's all that we can do." Looking mollified, if not entirely accepting, Colonel Mbanwe nodded.

The Public Affairs Officer was the next to raise a point. "Sir, another consideration is whether we will continue to conceal his identity. Regardless of whether Captain America chooses to continue his service or to retire, his real name has never been declassified. Informing the world that Captain America is alive and well would be… well, frankly, it'd be a nightmare for my job, but ultimately it's up to you."

Marks hummed. "This is an issue that we'll leave to Captain America to determine. I'd like to honor his wishes if he decides that he wants the world to know it was _him_ punching Hitler. I don't think I could keep that historical gold mine of information from the world without a guilty conscience unless he explicitly wanted the anonymity." There were a series of chirps as digital watches marked the passing of the fifth hour. "It's getting late—well, early I suppose. Are there any outstanding issues we should cover?"

"I've got one." Colonel Polosnky said. "Where's he going to go? I mean in a literal sense. He's been effectively dead and Captain America had no surviving family members. Are we going to leave a senior citizen to navigate the modern housing market on his lonesome?"

Andrews perked up. "I think any answer to that question is going to have a heavy basis on his mental state and legal obligations. Once we have those we can move forward. It may end up being he heads straight for a senior home, but it may also be that some interest group would be willing to help secure his retirement."

"So another point that's contingent on Captain America. Look, folks, we'll call another working group after we've had an opportunity to talk to the man himself. There's only so much we can anticipate and I think we have the most salient points covered. Last call for alibis." He looked around the room, but no one speaks up. "That's that then." As one, the meeting room stood to attention and saluted Marks with the usual "Go Army". He returned the salute and reflexively responded with "Beat Navy".

As his staff filed out of the Bored Room, he settled back in his chair. More likely than not, the newly recovered Captain America will want to retire and live his few years left on Earth in relative peace. Lord know that Marks would want the same. On the other hand, he wouldn't put it past SHIELD to cajole or guilt or use whatever means necessary to ensure his participation in some harebrained scheme—like trying to recreate the super soldier serum. No one deserves being harassed by Fury, let alone a WWII vet fresh out of a decades-long sleep. The only way to ensure that Fury can't get his claws into Captain America would be to… He looked up in time to see one of his officers returning to the Bored Room, having left a notebook. "Captain Khayyam! Stay back a moment, will you? Let's go over the details for Captain America's return flight. It's time to bring our Soldier home."

/

Steve opened the door to the bar, anticipation buzzing in his bones. The reaction was instantaneous—a cheer from the patrons and the crush of friends dragging him through the doorway, out from the cold and damp English winter. He couldn't keep track of all the faces, the familiar voices warming him from the inside out, the hands punching him in the shoulder and arms. It was a moment that lasted forever and also not at all long enough—but suddenly there was a beer in his hand and the crowd had disappeared. It was just him… and Peggy.

She wasn't in her cutomary uniform, a floor length dress the color of night draping over her shoulders and spilling over her body in clinging waves that only satin could accomplish. Her hair was as perfectly coifed as always, and her red lipstick seemed even more vibrant than usual. As the butterflies rioted in his stomach, he thought that maybe it was because she was smiling at _him_.

"You're late, Rogers," Peggy said, reproachful tone at odds with the joyful glint in her eyes.

He ducked his head to hide his blush, looking up from under his lashes as he said "Sorry, ma'am. I had a plane to catch." She held her stern gaze for only another half a breath before Steve suddenly found his arms full of her. Her grip was tight, arms wrapped around his shoulders as much as they could be, and he hugged her back as tight as he dared. A few strands of her hair tickled his nose. She smelled like cinnamon.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again," she whispered fiercely. "I don't care if Hitler himself is on the plane, never _ever_ —"

"I won't," he said over her. "I promise. I won't do that to you."

They continued to cling to each other as he listened to her swallow a few times, until she finally managed a strained "good" and took a step back. Her eyes seemed a little damp, but her grin still managed to dazzle him. "Now, how about that dance?"

Music sprang from a radio he hadn't noticed before on his right as he guided Peggy to the center of the dance floor. He tilted his head as he tried to find the beat in the odd song. "Is this new?"

Peggy shrugged. "They're playing the American station tonight, I'm sure there's all sorts of new, tasteless music for us to listen to." Steve laughed at her teasing before taking up the dancing position he had often seen Bucky use on dames, his left hand holding hers, his right hand high on her waist. That was when he remembered… he had no idea how to dance.

He chuckled nervously, "Uh, they didn't really have time to teach us the waltz between marksmanship and field training."

"Oh, that's quite alright, Steven. Swaying is just fine by me."

So they swayed.

He didn't really notice the songs changing, but the beats did seem to be getting stronger and faster as the night went on. Faster, as Peggy leaned on his chest contentedly. Faster, when she looked up at him with a wicked smirk on her lips. Faster, as she stood on her toes, hands pressing lightly against his chest as she stretched to reach Steve's lips. His breath hitched as she paused, just a hair's breadth away from a real kiss, and he closed his eyes in anticipation.

"Wake up, Steven," she whispered.

His brows drew together in confusion. Her hair didn't smell like cinnamon anymore. It smelled like…

"Wake up."

He opened his eyes. Peggy was gone. In her place was a bare, white ceiling. Not quite committed to waking up if dreaming meant seeing Peggy, he let his head loll to the right. The machines he saw were strange, nothing like the ones his mother used in the flu ward, but he could at least recognize the steady beeping of the heart monitor. There was a small bedside table next to him, with a candle on it. He could read the label: cinnamon. He frowned.

"Good morning. Well, afternoon, I suppose."

Still feeling sluggish, Steve's head turned to his left side, not quite awake enough to do it quickly, the lingering comfort of the dream slowing his reactions. A man was sitting in one of the three chairs in Steve's hospital room. His expression was friendly enough, if a little apprehensive, but he was dressed strangely. Steve's eyes began scanning the room, cataloguing everything. Something was… off. Everything was clean, but it felt wrong. Could there be such a thing as too clean? Too exact?

"How are you feeling?" The man asked. "I can call in one of the nurses if you'd like."

Steve stared at him, belatedly realizing that the man was dressed in a uniform, but not like any of the ones he'd seen in Europe. "Where am I?" He was shocked to hear his voice croak and rasp. The beeping of the heart monitor was increasing, and he _definitely_ felt awake now.

"Walter Reed Hospital."

"Walter Reed? I'm stateside?"

"Maryland, to be exact."

The room was beginning to spin a little, a sensation he hadn't experienced since before the serum. Was he drugged? "What about Europe? I should be in Europe."

The man frowned. "What do you remember?"

Schmidt. Valkyrie. Determination. Then the sensation of freefall, and the crushing, terrorizing cold and then… nothing. Steve frowned. Evidently, he had survived the crash, but he knew that even super soldiers would need time to heal from something like that. And the only reason they would send him to the States instead of back to the front would be because…

"It's over, isn't it? The war?" Steve asked, horrified. "I slept through the end of the war." God, Bucky would never let him live this—oh. Right. Bucky was… Bucky was gone. Steve forcefully turned his attention to the man, ignoring the grief threatening to sweep him away.

"To be frank, you slept through a quite a bit more than that."

Steve blinked, not understanding. How was he supposed to respond to that? He didn't even know this man- oh, right. "Sorry, I'm Captain Steve Rogers. I didn't catch your name?"

"Fair enough. I am General Charles Marks, Army Chief of Staff."

Eyeing the unfamiliar uniform once more, Steve slowly asked: "Chief of whose Army?"

He snorted. "The US." General Marks leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees while making eye contact with him. "I've consulted with at least three different mental health professionals and as usual, they can't agree on what the best way to tell you is so I'm going to give it to you straight. After your successful mission preventing the bombing of Manhattan, you crashed into the Northern Atlantic Ocean. No one could find you, although there have been three military operations and at least a dozen private ventures that tried. Recent technological advancements allowed us to mount a fourth military expedition that was estimated to have a stunning forty percent chance of successfully finding you."

The dread was rising. "The fourth?" He asked weakly. He didn't want to ask how long he was under. He didn't want to know. But… in a way, he already did. The starkly clean room, the strange machines, the unfamiliar uniform. He could think of two possibilities, and he didn't think he had been ushered into a hidden, futuristic nation.

General Marks' expression was sympathetic, but his voice was unyielding. "On March 4, 1945, you crashed into the ocean. Today is the seventeenth of October, 2012. You've been asleep for nearly seventy years."

 **AN:** Been sitting on this idea for a while, decided to just get it out there. I wouldn't expect regular updates, frankly. This is meant to be an organic story that will grow at its own pace, with no grand, overarching plot (I'm already working on a story with one of those and it's a *monster*). I did my best to keep out military jargon, but I don't always succeed, so lemme know if something don't make sense.

Feel free to comment with spelling/grammar suggestions, what you liked, what you didn't like, what you ate for breakfast- I'm honestly just happy to hear from you.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir? The Director of SHIELD is here to see you."

General Marks cursed under his breath and glared at his too-full calendar. Damn Fury waltzing into his office whenever he felt like it instead of scheduling a meeting like someone who _wasn't an egocentric asshole._ And Marks _knew_ that Fury must have "acquired" his calendar and specifically planned to show up now because it was the one fifteen-minute block he had to himself today. He took a bracing breath before looking up at his aide with a strained smile. "Thank you, you can send him in now."

Fury strode into his office, ridiculous leather cape swirling about his calves, eternally angry expression set into his one eye, and stopped to hover over Marks' desk in what was certainly meant to be a threatening manner. "Captain America is property of SHIELD."

"Not even a hello? No 'how's the wife'? I'm starting to think you don't like me, Fury."

"I don't like anyone, Marks, especially people who try to take what is rightfully mine."

"And this is where I insert a friendly reminder that the thirteenth amendment was passed in 1865."

Fury continued as if he hadn't spoken. "What are you going to do with him? You can't send him to the front. It would take years before he'd be ready to lead modern Soldiers into battle. He won't be satisfied sitting on the sidelines. He belongs with SHIELD, where we can put his skills to use immediately."

"I'm sorry, did you just call Captain America unfit to lead and say that you'd put him to work immediately in the same breath?"

"Yes, I did, because he won't be leading Soldiers in SHIELD. He'll be working alongside trained agents. You don't need to learn the history of modern warfare to carry out small-scale missions."

"Well, color me impressed. And you say this is supposed to be a mark in SHIELD's favor?"

Fury closed his eye, visibly struggling with his temper. "I am not here to explain the Army's deficiencies when compared to SHIELD. I am here to respectfully inform you to _back off_. I'm not going to persuade you that SHIELD is better for the Captain because it's _not your call_ on where he ends up."

They stared at one another, neither willing to break eye contact first. "Well, you're right about that," Marks agreed. "I can't very well strongarm a national hero into performing a service he doesn't want after he's already sacrificed so much for us." He looked at Fury meaningfully, but Fury remained predictably unmoved. "This is a decision for Captain America and Captain America _only_. Neither of us has a say."

"Then don't go to Walter Reed to give him your sales pitch."

It took everything Marks had not to giggle with glee. Instead, he put on an innocently confused expression. "Whatever do you mean, Fury?"

"Don't act like you aren't taking a car to Walter Reed in ten minutes."

"I knew you swiped my calendar."

"It's publicly available."

"To my _staff_."

"Stop avoiding the subject, Marks!"

"Fine. I will not go to Walter Reed to give him a 'sales pitch'." Fury narrowed his eye, immediately sensing that something was amiss, that Marks had given in too easily. Unable to keep his somewhat malicious joy contained, Marks' face split into a mischievous grin. "I'm going to congratulate him on his decision to continue serving the Army."

Fury slowly leaned forward, placing his hands on Marks' desk—rather rude, in Marks' opinion. "What did you do."

"Me? Oh, nothing. This morning I received a memo stating that Captain America had thoroughly considered his options and would, ah, hold on I still have it here." Marks took a moment to shuffle through his papers—purely to irritate Fury further, because he knew exactly where the memo was—and cleared his throat before reading aloud. "'Would find no greater honor than having the opportunity to continue serving the nation that he loves.' Rather well-written, for a man fresh out of a coma. Proper military correspondence by the regs. I suppose that's twentieth century decorum shining through." It was absolutely delightful to watch Fury's progressive… well, fury.

"This won't hold up, legally," Fury said, though the rage in his eyes hinted at the awareness that he was losing. "You can't expect anything a man says the day he wakes from a coma to be legally binding."

"That's true. I suppose it's a good thing that he waited a few days before stating his intent. Of course, I still require the medical follow up before giving him the green light. As long as he passes the mental health evaluation, everything should be airtight."

"A few days? Captain America woke up this morning."

"He did. And yesterday morning. And the day before that. Well, technically it was in the afternoon, but you get my meaning."

"Why wasn't I informed of this!"

Marks' smile evaporated, and he leaned forward on his desk before addressing Fury. "Why _would_ you be informed? You're not involved in his recovery. You're not in my chain of command. You have no established interest in Captain America other than for your own personal gain. The saying might be 'Mission First', but the other half of that saying you seem to forget is 'People Always'. Captain America is a _person_. Not an agent of your will. Not an asset to your organization. Not a tool for you to reshape the world in your image. The moment we dredged him up from the bottom of the ocean I knew—I _knew_ —that you wouldn't rest until he was in your collection if you found out he was alive. So I got him off the ship and into Walter Reed, taking great pains to make sure your agent—who wasn't even supposed to be involved in the recovery operation, by the way, don't think I won't bring that up at the next Security Council—couldn't report anything back to you. You found out anyways, because of course you did, but I got enough time to lock in my position. You won't be kidnapping Captain America into whatever black ops bullshit you're up to these days."

"Bullshit," Fury seethed. "You're telling me that you knew he was physically and mentally fit enough to continue service while he was a popsicle? That you planned all this out without knowing if he still had cognitive function?"

"Actually, good point. At the time I made these plans, I assumed he was going to be old, wrinkled, and probably an amnesiac. It was a pleasant surprise to discover he hasn't aged a day since he entered the deep freezer. I merely operated off the assumption that you'd try to swindle him into your ranks anyway solely to recreate the super soldier serum or some nonsense." Marks couldn't quite control the wave of disgust that swept through him when Fury averted his eyes. He glanced at his wrist to confirm the time before standing, taking a moment to straighten out his jacket. "Well, I wish I could say it's been a pleasure and we should do this again sometime, but I'd rather think I'd never see you again."

"If wishes were horses, huh?" Fury chuckled, suitably subdued now that he accepted he'd been outplayed. Probably already planning his next "acquisition".

"Sure. Now, if you'll get the hell out of my office, I have an appointment to keep."

/

Steve paused as he heard the door to his room open, holding the razor away from his face as he assessed the new threat in his mirror. _Visitor._ Not threat. Visitor. General Marks waved at him with an easy smile and Steve's eyes darted to the clock before saying, "Sir, you're early today. I thought I was going to meet you in the café?" He briefly wrestled with whether it would be more impertinent to address a four-star with shaving cream all over his face or unshaven, until the general himself interrupted his thoughts.

"Don't mind me, Steve, please continue with your routine." Still feeling a little unsure about the situation—he wasn't even fully dressed, being in only an undershirt-Steve cautiously began scraping the disposable razor across his cheeks. What he'd give to have a straight-edge again… "I just wanted to swing by to tell you what to expect today."

"Sir?"

"I received your mental health evaluation the other day." Steve nodded as he rinsed the blade free of stubble. He knew this. He also knew that he was expected to continue seeing the doctor every week for the foreseeable future. It wasn't a thrilling prospect, but he was willing to do it if it meant he had a chance to stay in the Army. "And I thought, since all we're waiting on is a formal clearance from the Medical Board, is that maybe you'd like to talk about where you'd like to be assigned."

At this, he froze entirely before whipping around, eyes wide. General Marks might be relaxed in his mannerisms—more relaxed than any field grade officer Steve had ever known, let alone flag officer—but he was not loose with his words. If General Marks was talking about Steve's assignment, that meant he was really getting one—he was really staying in the Army!

General Marks laughed. "Don't look so surprised! That's not even what I came to warn you about. Keep shaving." He paused long enough to see that Steve did indeed begin shaving again. Which he did. Vigorously. "I've brought two of my staff with me. And Daniel, of course, but you already know him." Major Daniel Nakasone was General Marks' aide and so traveled with him everywhere. Every time the general visited Steve, Major Nakasone was in his shadow. Or at the café getting a round of coffee. "They're both full birds and between them, myself, and Major Nakasone, you'll have a full range of Army experience to work with to help determine your assignment. Heads up, Colonel Polonsky thrives on energy and Colonel Mbanwe practically exudes peace so getting stuck between them feels like being in the eye of a hurricane. I would recommend sitting next to Daniel or myself. So as soon as you're ready—"

"Ready, sir," Steve said as he finished buttoning his shirt. It felt too informal without a jacket or at least a tie, but both General Marks and Major Nakasone insisted that today's standard of dress had relaxed considerably since Steve's time. There hadn't been an opportunity to leave the hospital and witness this for himself, but if the other patrons of the café were anything to go by, Steve was forced to agree with them.

"Then after you."

/

Major Nakasone and the two colonels were indeed waiting for them in the café, five coffees spread across the table and a platter of pastries for good measure. The sight was… disconcerting. Steve wondered how the general thought to warn him about the personalities of his staff, but not that one was a woman and one was colored. He furtively glanced at General Marks, who was shaking their hands and beginning the introductions, but there was no falter in his smile or stutter his words, so Steve assumed that this must be a common thing in the future. Peggy would have been happy about it, at least. Peggy probably had a hand in making it happen, now that he thought about it, watching the silver eagle glint on the shoulder of her uniform.

"So, Steven Rogers, is it?" The woman—Colonel Polonsky—gave him a once over before nodding approvingly. "It's like you walked straight out of the posters. You know they never declassified your name? Today's the first I'm hearing it." She extended her hand and Steve took it, careful not to accidentally crush her hand as he shook it. He still had occasional trouble modulating his strength since he woke up.

"That's what I've been told, ma'am." His eyes slid to the colored man, making sure to offer his hand first this time.

"Captain Rogers," Colonel Mbanwe said in a pleasant but unfamiliar accent, "I am thrilled to finally meet you."

"Likewise, sir."

Colonel Mbanwe smiled. "Oh, I very much doubt that meeting me favorably compares to meeting a hero to history." And maybe he'd be right. After all, Steve wasn't overly surprised to meet a woman colonel. How could he, after Peggy? But while he had heard of colored officers before, he had never actually seen one while in Europe. He remembered all the talk—most of it bad, some of it awful—when one of the Tuskegee airmen was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. This man must be one of the few who've made it so high up, and Steve had no trouble admitting he was a little awed to be meeting him.

"I think you'd be surprised, sir." Colonel Mbanwe's smile turned curious, but it was General Marks who spoke next.

"Alright, now that introductions are out of the way, let's sit! I'm dying to try one of those croissants."

So they sat. Steve reached for his coffee. Black, like every other morning. It tasted bad, but he couldn't quite shake the guilt of using sugar or milk for something so trivial as morning coffee. Still better than the K-rations.

There was a delighted hum as General Marks bit into his pastry, and Steve was relieved to learn that it was still polite to swallow your food before speaking. "Alright, Steve, what are your initial thoughts? Have you been thinking about any particular assignment?"

He took another sip of coffee to think over his answer. "To be honest, sir, I was only focused on making it through all the evaluations," because he had been scared to hope. Now, though, he had a chance. And if he could go anywhere… "I think I would like it most if I could rejoin the 107th."

General Marks frowned. "That's a no-go. The 107th was deactivated after WWII."

"Oh," he said. And wasn't it strange, how hearing that the 107th was deactivated felt so similar to learning one of his friends had died on the front? Like climbing a step that wasn't there. Like watching your best friend—no. His entire unit just… gone. No Soldiers to carry on the legacy of the ones who came before. No one to remember their sacrifices. The 107th had consecrated European soil with the blood of its Soldiers and now it doesn't exist.

"Technically, it was folded up into the 69th Infantry Regiment," Colonel Polonsky said, forcing Steve to break out of his mourning. "Or maybe the 108th? At any rate, it's part of the New York National Guard." She leaned back in her chair and fixed her gaze on him. "I'll be honest with you, Rogers, I was against letting you return to service. I still have my reservations, to be perfectly frank."

"Your blithe honesty has always been valued," Colonel Mbanwe said, smiling around his coffee.

"Can it, four eyes," she said without bite. "From where I'm sitting, you're woefully unqualified. You don't have a college education, which is the standard for every commissioned officer. You are unaware of anything that happened in the past seventy years through no fault of your own, but will still require extensive training and education to bring you up to speed. You're technologically outmoded. I have no idea how you plan on communicating with troops when you don't know how to operate a phone or computer."

Steve snorted. "Ma'am, most of what you're saying is true and of course I'm willing to go through whatever training necessary, but I do know how to operate a _phone_." There was one in his room! Sure, it was more advanced than the ones in his day, shinier and sleeker and with better sound quality, but it still operated on the principal of "punch numbers, get connected". The phone operators don't even need to talk to you to know which switch to put you on anymore!

Rolling her eyes, Colonel Polonsky reached into her pocket and placed a black, rectangular device on the table. Steve frowned at it, unsure what it had to do with their conversation. He might have mistaken it for a mirror, but the face was too dark to properly view a reflection. " _This_ is a phone, Rogers. Also called a cellular or cell phone. This is the technological standard today, not the landline in your room. I bet the one you have is still corded into your wall, isn't it?"

"How can phones transmit signals without a wire?" Turning the device around in his hand, he looked for a wire or antenna. Maybe they were more like radios now?

"Case in point. I'm afraid to even ask what comes to your mind when you picture a computer." Steve had the good sense not to describe the cutting-edge electronics he had witnessed in the Strategic Science Reserve.

"While I believe there are less caustic manners of delivery," Colonel Mbanwe said, "Colonel Polonsky speaks truly. We would do well to consider your limitations when choosing your assignment. You have expressed interest in the 107th. We could place you with one of the sister units Colonel Polonsky mentioned. In a National Guard unit, you would only conduct military activities once a month. That would leave you free to pursue education, collegiate or otherwise, while maintaining a connection with the Army. It is not a bad plan."

"They only train once a month?" Steve asked. "What do they do the rest of the time?"

General Marks shrugged. "Civilian jobs, for the most part. I like Moses' idea, but there are some drawbacks. You won't be active, so you'll have access to fewer resources. We might be able to work a backdoor deal to get around that given your situation, but I can't promise anything. I'm also not thrilled at the prospect of throwing you into the civilian world with no prep. Even non-time-traveling Soldiers are required to go through training before we discharge them from the Army to help ease the transition. I don't think you'll be able to pick up a job unless someone somewhere forged your documents. Well, forged probably isn't the right word, since it would be the government doing it. Unless we went full declassification with you, which I'm _also_ not fond of."

"You can't very well just make him active and place him in front of a unit!" Colonel Polonsky countered.

"There are staff positions that could facilitate the growth Captain Rogers seeks," Colonel Mbanwe said.

"One word: computers."

"What about a college?" The banter at the table ceased as everyone turned to Major Nakasone. "I mean, you keep talking about how much he has to learn. Colleges are for learning. Easy."

"I thought we didn't want me going straight to civilian?" Steve asked.

The colonels shared a glance and General Marks groaned, "Don't say it."

"It makes the most sense," Colonl Polonsky said with a grin.

"We cannot send him to your alma mater, sir," Colonel Mbanwe added. "The Citadel isn't a part of the Army or even a public institution."

Colonel Polosnky barked a laugh, "More like _shit_ adel." Steve _did_ stare this time, aghast to be hearing such language—from a colonel! A woman! In front of her boss!

"Maria."

"Sorry, sir."

The general rubbed at his face. "Can't we send him to the War College?"

"You'd rather send him to the Navy than the Army's own?" Colonel Polonsky asked, clearly enjoying the general's reluctance. Steve was starting to wonder if he was supposed to have clued in by now.

"He looks too old to be a cadet."

"The age limit is thirty-six," Colonel Mbanwe asserted, clearly warming up to the idea. "He could claim prior service if we wanted him to join as a cadet. I would caution against that, however, as it would be difficult to maintain a double life in such close quarters."

"Why send him there if he isn't going to be a student?"

"It is still an academic institution, sir. He would have access to a wide variety of instructors who could assist him in studies, the majority of whom are military themselves and can share personal experiences of life in the Army. It is also a functional base, so there will be housing available."

Colonel Polonsky faced him. "Hey, aren't you from the Bronx?"

"Queens, actually, ma'am."

"The Hudson Line goes up there, there's a station right across the river. It would only take you an hour to get to New York City whenever you wanted." Well, that did sound nice. He hadn't thought much about where he'd end up—what's a "where" without the "who"s who lived there—but staying close to home made him feel better. "Face it, sir, there's nowhere better to send him."

"I will never admit it. You can't make me."

"Excuse me," Steve interrupted, tired of being left out of the loop. "Send me _where_ , exactly?"

General Marks gave an exaggerated sigh. "These two ring knockers want to make you a modern man by sending you to the place known for never letting progress get in the way of tradition."

"The United States Military Academy," Colonel Mbanwe clarified. "At West Point, New York."

/

 **A/N** : So a few things about this chapter. First, if it isn't clear already, Steve should be considered an unreliable narrator. He's fresh out of the forties and still has ideas about himself and the world around him rooted in the philosophies of that age. This includes benign things, like a tank top being "partially undressed" but also includes things that can be a lot more hurtful, prejudiced, or uneducated (such as assuming a colonel being black is a big deal). I don't think Steve would intentionally be that way, but I also don't think it's reasonable that Steve would pop out of the ice and automatically know to call people "black" instead of "colored". At the end of the day, this story is about modernizing Steve.

Second, Steve references Henry O. Davis, Jr when he's remembering all "the talk when one of the Tuskegee airmen was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel". Henry O. Davis, Jr. has a rad story and I encourage you to look him up if you're interested, but I also want to mention his father, Henry O. Davis, Sr. Senior was actually the highest ranking black officer pre-segregation and was a commanding general before the US even entered WWII. The reason I decided to have Steve reference Junior instead of Senior with respect to Colonel Mbanwe's rank is because Senior served in non-commanding roles during the war itself (busy being the spearhead for integrating units) and likely wouldn't have been considered news-worthy in the same way Junior was to the average grunt.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you ready Tibbs?"

Mor glared at her colleague as she attempted to straighten out her uniform for the umpteenth time. _Why_ she thought that he'd be the best prep-help was really beyond her. "Do I look ready?" She stood at attention, shoulders square, feet at a forty-five degree angle, trying to project an air of confidence and competence.

"You look anxious," he said, leaning on the wall of the changing room.

She huffed and looked back at the mirror, trying to control her expression. "I'm not anxious! I'm… amped up on adrenaline."

He snorted. "So you're nervous?"

"No!" she denied reflexively, as she pat down loose strands of hair. "I'm… suitably excited."

"If you say so."

"I _do_ say so, dammit." She tugged down on the left side of her uniform to even out her nametape only to have her ribbons skew on the right side. "Oh for fuck's sake, Gallows, help me with this stupid thing." He removed the ribbon rack before carefully repinning it in line with the nametape.

Taking a step back, Gallows looked her over and nodded. "As long as you don't pull around on the jacket, it should be fine. Are you sure you're ready?"

Taking a deep breath, Mor stepped out of the dressing room. "As ready as I'll ever be to interview with the Chief of the Army."

"That's fair," Gallows nodded, falling into step beside her. "Still no word on what your actual job will be?"

"Nope, but if I figure if I've got to go through the Army's top dog to get it, it's gotta be one hell of a position."

"Eh, you'd think that, but we both had to get interviewed for _this_ job and it's not much different than any other staff position."

"What are you saying?! Don't jinx it!"

"Sorry, you're right, I'm sure that it's exactly what every officer dreams of, with extra pay and days off." He snickered when Mor made a distressed sound and knocked on the nearest wooden plaque. "Alright, let's say that it is neither terrible or the best job ever—what if they send you somewhere you don't want?"

"I don't care where they send me," Mor said resolutely, "as long as the job's good."

"Even That Place?" Gallows waggled his eyebrows.

Mor rolled her eyes. "You don't need to speak in euphemisms."

"Really? Because you nearly bit my head off last week for asking if you were going to watch the Army-Air Force game."

"Well it was a stupid question!" The pair stopped simultaneously, staring at the imposing door in front of them. Objectively, it was no different than any other office door in this building, but what lie beyond it made all the difference. "Why would I subject myself to so much torture?"

"Are we talking about the game or this interview?"

"Yes." She stared at the door. Time ticked by as a nearly visceral sensation. This was it.

"Hey, Tibbs."

"Yeah?"

A hand on her shoulder turned her to face Gallows. "You've got this. Remember, you've already gone through hell and come out the other side. This will be nothing in comparison. Even the worst day out here is better than—"

"—the greatest day at West Point." Mor managed to twitch her face into something resembling a grateful smile, too nauseous to really commit to it. "Thanks, Gallows. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, I'll put it on your tab." He gave her a gentle shove. "Now, go forth and conquer."

Mor threw her shoulders back and put a hand on the doorknob. She mentally aligned herself, locking all of the doubts and fears in a dark corner of her mind and lovingly putting the parts of herself not fit for military bearing on a shelf in that same corner. No hesitation now. No indecision. It was time to go in for the kill.

/

There's a board of three officers sitting at a desk. The central officer is immediately recognizable as none other than General Marks, Army Chief of Staff, but she can't identify the other two by sight alone. Mor strode to the center of the room and rendered a salute. "First Lieutenant Morgan Thibodeaux reporting as ordered," and holds the salute for a breath longer after General Marks acknowledges it.

General Marks smiles at her, probably meant to be encouraging or friendly. "Please, LT, have a seat."

Obeying the request like the command it was, Mor sat in the only chair facing the council.

"What do you go by?" He asks as he leafs through her file. "Morgan?"

"Yes, sir." As formal and stuffy as her first name was, she vastly preferred superior officers addressing her by 'Morgan' rather than being overly familiar. 'Mor' was a nickname for friends and family only, thanks.

"Alright, Morgan," General Marks smiles again and it's setting her teeth on edge. "Do you know why you're here today?"

"I've passed the initial screenings for a unique and rare opportunity," she recites. "This is the interview is the final screening for the candidates."

The female Colonel— her nameplate read "Polonsky"—snorted. "So you have no idea what this opportunity entails."

"…No, ma'am."

"That's alright," General Marks said consolingly—and when has it ever been a good sign to get consoled in your own interview? "I'd be much more concerned if you _had_ known. Infosec, you know how it is."

"Yes, sir."

The black Colonel, Mbanwe, speaks next. "What do you hope this opportunity is?"

"Well, sir, I'm hoping this'll be the next step in my career. You can see in my application that I've previously held key leader positions that satisfy the requirement for promotion—"

"That's right, you've made the list haven't you?" Colonel Polonsky interrupted. "Congrats on making it to promotable."

"Thank you, ma'am," she paused, not sure if she was expected to continue. "My previous leadership positions have been—"

"When do you pin Captain?" Colonel Polonsky cut her off again. Mor focused her attention on her, more curious than confused or upset at being continuously interrupted. It seemed strange that General Marks would allow one of his board members to talk over his candidates like this. Colonel Polonsky obviously didn't fear any repercussions for her actions, so either General Marks didn't have a backbone… or this was part of the interview.

"In May, ma'am."

"Right," Colonel Polonsky drawls. "All the West Pointers get promoted in the spring." Mor waited for her to continue, allowing the silence to stretch on for a few moments.

Colonel Mbanwe seemed to tire of the game first. "Referencing my question again, what do you hope this opportunity is?"

"Sir, as you can see in my file, I've held key leader positions in the past, but the closest I've had to leading Soldiers was as an Executive Officer. I'm keen on finding a position or role that puts me at the head of a unit or team; I don't care how big or small. While I may not know the details of what this opportunity is, I know that I'm ready to tackle any challenge or project with tenacity and grit."

"That 'tenacity and grit' didn't seem to apply to your master's courses," Colonel Polonsky observed.

Morgan frowned. That wasn't in her application. She didn't think it had been worth explaining that… "I had been, yes ma'am, but I have postponed my studies until I can better dedicate my time to them."

"So do you plan on postponing this job until you have more time to dedicate to it?"

"My job comes first, ma'am," Mor explained as calmly as she could, ignoring how her legs shook in her boots. She was fine. A little excitement for a little confrontation is all it was. "It's the reason I don't have time for schooling."

Colonel Mbanwe took pity on her once more. "What was your major?"

"Psychology, sir."

For maybe the second time that interview, General Marks addressed her directly. "That's an interesting choice, since your bachelor's was in a geography field."

They were examining her undergrad choices? "People live in places, sir," she _wanted_ to smile and show how at-ease she was, but decided it wasn't worth the risk of grimacing. It would be best to inject the humor into her tone, instead. "They're not so unrelated."

"You've also logged quite a few hours in VMIS?" He asked curiously.

This interview was becoming stranger by the minute. How had a passing reference to her volunteer activities turned into a reason to check the Army's volunteer website for the actual hours logged? How could that possibly be relevant? "Yes, sir. I volunteer about eight hours over the course of a week with a crisis hotline." Which they would clearly know if they had taken the time to look at her hours.

"Would this happen to be related to your choice of major?"

"It looks good on post-graduate resumes, sir, and…" she hesitated. "And the skills are useful."

Colonel Mbanwe leaned forward in interest. "What skills are those, Lieutenant Thibodeaux?"

"It mostly involves talking people down from hot to cold, sir. Which might sound jargon-y, but it's basically helping people calm down from very emotional moments so they can make it through another day," Colonel Mbanwe nods his understanding. "I'm not always able to do it," Mor admits. "Sometimes I have to pass a difficult case to another counselor, but I do my best."

"That is good to hear," Colonel Mbanwe said encouragingly. "It is admirable to take time out of our lives to help others."

"Work, volunteer, school, it seems like you do it all, Thibodeaux," Colonel Polonsky leaned back in her chair. "Assuming you get eight hours of sleep like the rest of us mortals, I'd have to wonder if you have any time for friends and family."

"All my family live in Louisiana, ma'am. The most I get to hear from them is when we call every week and when I go home for holidays," she paused, riding out the wave of homesickness. "I don't have a significant other or pets, so it's not as much of a time investment as it sounds."

General Marks hummed. "If you don't have family in the area, what do you do in your spare time?"

"Uh, well, I read, sir. Play video games. Movies, I guess. Work and volunteering takes up most of my time, though."

"Would you consider yourself well-versed in pop culture?" General Marks asked in that conspicuously casual manner that always masks a particular interest.

"I suppose?" Mor responds suspiciously. "I'm a good person to have on your team at trivia night, if that's what you mean."

"How about internet culture?"

Mor blinked rapidly, hoping to gods unseen that she wasn't blushing. It's not like they abused government powers to scrape her internet history. _Right?_ "Uh, yes, sir, I think I would consider myself proficient," and thank heavens she managed to keep her voice at a normal pitch.

General Marks nodded again, apparently not sensing anything strange about her answer. Or his question, for that matter. Looking thoughtful, he steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "This might be a little bit of an out-there question," he begins, "so don't be afraid to take a minute to think over your answer. Let's say you met a time traveler and you'd be responsible for the traveler's entire education leading up to today and integrating them into modern society. What would you do?"

She blanks. This had to be one of those 'off-the-wall-question-that-totally-shows-we're-a-cool-corporation-that's-hip-please-buy-into-our-culture-cult' type of things. There was simply no other explanation. Unless they wanted her to lampshade the question, so to speak? "Sir, I've got to say that I'm not sure what this line of questioning has to do with—"

"Humor us," Colonel Polonsky spoke over her.

Guess they want a real answer. Well, if they want her to take it seriously…

"What year is the time traveler from, sir? Are they from the future?"

"No," he says, shifting in his chair. "Let's say the time traveler is a, oh, I don't know, an American Soldier from Brooklyn, 1943."

Very oddly specific. "Well, sir, if the priority is integrating the Soldier into modern society, then I suppose I would have to cover the information that he would need on a day-to-day basis so it wouldn't raise red flags for others. Manners of speech, how to dress, what to expect, what not to say. Once we get generic conversation down, then we'd have to work on the basics of modern technology: cell phones, computers, the internet is going to be the biggest one probably. That way, the Soldier can begin developing independence instead of relying on a single person."

"So you would not start with a summary of events since 1943?" Colonel Mbanwe asked in polite interest.

"If the Soldier asks about it I would answer, sir, but that would be something we'd work on over time, since it's ultimately something that the Soldier would be able to look into themselves. I'm not saying I _wouldn_ _'t_ cover it, just that it takes a lower priority than social and technological skills."

"I see."

The board of officers all looked at each other, seeming to communicate with nothing more than eye twitches and eye rolls. Her nerves were starting to vibrate in that mental box she locked them in. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement. General Marks spoke.

"Okay, Morgan. Here's where we lift the curtain. This is not the final screening for the job." A rush of terror— did she mess up that badly? Did she completely miss a step in the application process? Practical tests? "The final screening already happened." Oh. "This is your in-brief to your new position as an aide." _Oh_.

She… she got the job? She got the job! Wait—"Sir, as an aide?" Her fleeting excitement quickly crashed into sinking disappointment. An aide was not a leadership position. Not by any stretch of the imagination. That's not what she signed up for.

"Yes— don't worry you won't be mine," General Marks chuckled at his own joke. "This won't be a traditional aide role. You will be responsible for a single individual, but you will be equivalent in rank. Well, you will be in May, anyway." _What in the hell kind of Captain requires an aide?_ "Nominally, he will be your superior, but in reality you will be his first-line. You will have no supplementary duties. Additionally, you'll be required to PCS to another post by the end of the month. You may or may not be required to PCS in the near future. You report directly to COL Polonsky, who will forward all your reports to me. Knowing these facts, are you willing to take the job?"

She hesitated, confusion warring with… well, more confusion if she was being honest. PCSing wouldn't affect her life too drastically. She never finished unpacking from her last move—that's not what's giving her hang-ups. A one-to-one working relationship didn't sound too difficult, but it was still baffling that such a job required reporting directly to the Chief of the Army's staff. No matter what angle she looked at this from, it just wasn't the leadership position she was angling for.

"If it makes any difference," Colonel Mbanwe interjected, "I will say that this position will afford you the opportunity to rub elbows with a quite a few influential individuals, military and civilian. As for more concrete benefits… An annual evaluation from General Marks would be impressive no matter the job title."

It made sense. If she delayed her pursuit of a leadership position long enough to complete this job, it may pay off in dividends in the future. No supplementary duties meant that she could even resume her master's studies, which would give her a competitive edge for future positions that few would be to compete with, let alone out-do. She could feel the tentative consideration crystallizing into determination.

"When do I start, sir?"

"Should I take that as your acceptance?" General Marks asked, almost… teasing? It was setting off alarms, whatever it was.

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, it's time to give you the full brief. You will be Captain America's aide."

Mor blinked rapidly. "Captain America? Are we reviving the mantle?"

"In a way," General Marks confirmed. "I'm sure you know the story of the original Captain America."

Incredulous, she laughed to help ease the tension. "What American doesn't, sir?"

"Very true. Did you hear about the most recent expedition to recover his remains?"

"No, sir. I assume that I would have heard something if it had been successful."

"Yes. The mission to recover his remains was unsuccessful… because we ended up recovering him alive."

"I'm sorry?" She didn't think she had lost _that_ much of her hearing.

"We have no idea how he survived, either. All we know is that we have a resurrected American icon on our hands with no knowledge of the past seventy years and the Army is the only thing he has to rely on. That's where you come in. You'll be responsible for his education and integration into modern society. You will have all the Army's resources available to you to achieve this mission."

"I'm going to be training Captain America?" Mor asked faintly.

"That's a good summary, yes."

"We've prepared a packet for you regarding his condition and medical requirements for your review," Colonel Polonsky said, holding out a thick manila folder of information. "Currently, he's subject to monthly physical check-ups and biweekly appointments with his therapist. Given his precarious situation, we're not announcing his existence to the world just yet—if we ever do. There are very few people who are aware of his exact identity. Outside of General Marks' staff, only his therapists and two others know about him—and one of those two are the president." Oh _shit_ what did she get herself into? "His only job right now is to get up to speed on what it takes to be a modern officer which makes it _your_ job to get him there. Do you have any questions?"

"No, ma'am," she managed to say. "Just… a little overwhelmed, I think."

"Well, that's alright," General Marks grinned, giving Mor the distinct impression that making people feel overwhelmed was one of his hobbies. "COL Polonsky will give you her work cell so you can contact her with any questions that might occur to you. We're aiming to get Captain America settled in to his new home by the first of November and we want you to be there to greet him. In the interest of not leaving him alone without compromising either his or your independence, we've arranged to have a duplex set aside. All you have to do is ship your things. In fact," he pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her. She took it with numb fingers. "I already have your PCS leave approved. As soon as you leave, you can get packed and heading out!"

"I—thank you, sir. Do I, uh, need to call anyone?"

"No, my buddy Bobby is taking care of everything on the receiving end. We already have a duplex set aside for you and Captain America. It was wonderful meeting you, Morgan, and I look forward to receiving your reports in the future."

"Absolutely, sir. I look forward to providing them," she saluted her departure, feeling herself go through the motions, but not convinced she was the one causing them. It felt like she was underwater— everything was hazy, muted, fantastic, and unreal. Could this really be happening? Is she really going to work with _the_ Captain America? It's just too good to be true, and she didn't even have to knock on wood to protect that statement! She's even going to move! Soon! To—to… where was she going?

She was halfway to the door before she realized that would be good information to have while packing. "Sir? Where am I PCSing to?"

General Marks looked up from collecting paperwork and grinned in a distinctly unsettling manner. "A post I think you'll be very familiar with. You'll be returning to your alma mater, West Point."

Mother _fucker_.


End file.
